Sometimes the wrong reason is right

Yom Kippur concluded Wednesday night, and although I'm not much of a practicing Jew, I attend the closing service every year.

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poconorecord.com

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Posted Sep. 30, 2012 at 12:01 AM

Posted Sep. 30, 2012 at 12:01 AM

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Yom Kippur concluded Wednesday night, and although I'm not much of a practicing Jew, I attend the closing service every year.

This year I finally discovered why.

Yom Kippur is the Jewish faith's day of atonement. It's like a year's worth of confessions packed into 24 hours of fasting, praying and thinking of how to live a better life.

The service ends at sunset with a section called Ne'ilah, where the congregation is asked to stand throughout. Ne'ilah can last for up to an hour, depending on the congregation.

Fasting and praying makes Yom Kippur feel like a marathon. And the Ne'ilah is like running the last mile uphill. It tests your strength and commitment and can lead to reflection and flashbacks.

My family lived a semi-religious life. My mother was Orthodox. My dad, well, not so much. So they did what all husbands and wives do. They compromised and did it her way.

We kept a kosher home, where meat and dairy products are never mixed. We had meat plates, and meat silverware, dairy plates and dairy silverware. For fancy occasions we had special meat and dairy dishes and silverware.

We went to a fairly strict temple where services were long and mostly in Hebrew. As a child it was tortuous. We'd page through the prayer book to see how long it was until the end of the service.

Years later as a young adult, I was lounging in my parents' apartment, playing hooky from the afternoon Yom Kippur service. I heard a knock on the door. When I opened it, I saw my father standing motionless, staring blankly as drool ran from the corner of his mouth.

We thought it was a combination of fasting and his diabetes, so we fed him immediately. When he didn't respond, we called an ambulance. He'd suffered a minor stroke.

That year my mother and I broke our fast at the emergency room's vending machines.

I continued to spend every Yom Kippur with them until they died.

While cleaning up their apartment after they were gone, I found papers belonging to my mother spread on the coffee table.

They were documents counseling Jewish mothers on how to deal with children, like me, who married out of the religion.

I was surprised. She truly loved my wife and never let on that she struggled with my choices. I spoke to her rabbi about it. He told me in a judgmental way that many Jewish people felt the same as my mother. I was mad. And I stopped attending services.

A few years ago, I returned to the Yom Kippur service I so loved. The magic of the observance came back.

So, on Wednesday night, I stood with the ark open and considered the year past. I recalled the days I walked with my folks to temple. And I thought about those fresh bagels, as many as you could eat, and that first sip of orange juice when we broke fast together.

I realized it wasn't just spiritual refreshment — I went to the service to be closer to the memory of my mother and father.